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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149667">truth we can't hide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth'>elizabethelizabeth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1970s, Confessions, Disco, F/F, First Kiss, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Crowley, on the other hand, straddled the line of standing out and effortless resemblance. Her maroon shirt clung to her, silk draping just artfully enough that Aziraphale knew it was miraculously intentional. She had these ridiculous high-heeled boots, shining in their propped-up position on the barstool. She was wearing her glasses, some new chromatic pair that caught the lights easily if obnoxiously. Idly, Aziraphale thought that Crowley’s naked eyes might have shone brighter and more beautiful.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>truth we can't hide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/gifts">doorwaytoparadise</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>&lt;3 happy birthday, my dear</p><p>I wrote you some 70s wives~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What’s a gal like you doing in a joint like this then?”</p><p>Aziraphale, for all her unwillingness to keep up with the slang and style of whatever time period she happened to be living in, knew that Crowley’s words leaned toward the 1940s than the 1970s. The thrumming backdrop and vibrant lights of the discotheque they were currently occupying were unequivocally of the times.</p><p><em>Jesus, angel, everyone knows you can’t speak French. No one calls it a </em>discotheque.</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t care too much for disco; too much bebop and lyrics that moved just a little too fast. The dancing had its merits: dancers lined up and choreographed in sync, even if the group of them were strangers. It reminded her of the club in Portland Place from the late 19th century: a learned dance done in synchronicity, forgiving even to those new to the steps. That aspect of disco, at least, makes Aziraphale feel a little more at ease in this club she found Crowley in.</p><p>Well, maybe <em>found</em> wasn’t the correct term. It implied Aziraphale hadn’t been looking for Crowley. Let no records of above or below take note of the following: Aziraphale had looked for Crowley, found her, and was insistent on not letting her get away so easily. In the back of Aziraphale’s mind, though, she knew the truth. Crowley was never the one to step back or walk away, would never abandon Aziraphale. She was difficult to get rid of. Demons, Aziraphale assumed, had habits of making themselves comfortable in places they shouldn’t.</p><p>So Crowley had unintentionally taken up permanent residence in Aziraphale’s heart, despite the angel’s best efforts to evict her.</p><p>Aziraphale sipped at her drink before responding. “I keep reminding you I live in Soho. Maybe I come here often. Perhaps The Flamingo one of my usual haunts, as they say.”</p><p>With a disbelieving eye roll and a scoff, Crowley gestured with her drink in Aziraphale’s direction. “You’re not dressed for disco.”</p><p>Crowley had a point. She looked out of place in the blues and reds of flashing lights, the violet pink magenta overlap they created when the spotlights crossed each other's pathways. Aziraphale instead dressed for her day-to-day life as a congenial bookseller: waistcoat and shirt fully buttoned, trousers at their most relaxed, the most sensible of shoes created for a patron angel of comfort</p><p><em>Wouldn’t be surprised if they called you that up in heaven, angel. Were your superiors more observant they might commend you for it. Or, conversely, the essence of sloth might make you a good demon. Oi! Heresy is what I </em>do<em> angel, you should be used to it!</em></p><p>She was just unassuming enough to blend in seamlessly.</p><p>Crowley, on the other hand, straddled the line of standing out and effortless resemblance. Her maroon shirt clung to her, silk draping just artfully enough that Aziraphale knew it was miraculously intentional. She had these ridiculous high-heeled boots, shining in their propped-up position on the barstool. She was wearing her glasses, some new chromatic pair that caught the lights easily if obnoxiously. Idly, Aziraphale thought that Crowley’s naked eyes might have shone brighter and more beautiful.</p><p>She was gorgeous. That was nothing new. Crowley was always gorgeous. She swaggered through demonic existence and human lives and one particular angelic presence and always made it seem as if she belonged there. She belonged in this club, smiling around a sip of whiskey and raised an eyebrow at any patrons who dared sidle up too close. She belonged in Mayfair, in her high-rise flat, lord of her own botanic dominion. She belonged in London, in Aziraphale’s orbit, always close enough for Aziraphale to keep an eye on her.</p><p>What kind of eye depended on the circumstances.</p><p>“That makes sense since I’m not here for disco,” Aziraphale finally answered.</p><p>“Does that mean you won’t dance with me?”</p><p>She'd been expecting questions of motives. She hadn't expected the offer of a dance.</p><p>A split second chill in her veins, ice refrozen, colder than the glass in her hand. Both her and the glass were close to shattering.</p><p>
  <em>There’s a scientific process, did you know? where an element goes from gas to a solid. Deposition is what it’s called. The temperature drops so quickly that the atoms lose their fucking minds. Did you know, even frozen, atoms never stop moving? Did you know then, angel, even frozen, staring at me with so much fear and so much want, that your emotions never stopped?</em>
</p><p>How long could Aziraphale keep this up, she wondered? How long could the two of them dance around each other? How long could Aziraphale pretend that the all-encompassing everything of their relationship, of the Arrangement, of AziraphaleandCrowley, of an angel and a demon, was something to hide?</p><p>Aziraphale had every reason and excuse to hide, but the bright lights reflected in Crowley’s eyes and the vulnerability and bravery of the question, no matter how it was phrased, made Aziraphale throw her fears to the depths of her mind. She couldn’t cast them out entirely, there was still so much residual anxiety from heaven instilled in her body. Those that had created her, whatever this corporation’s quirks and contemptible spirits, Aziraphale could not forget them entirely.</p><p>
  <em>Someday, angel. Someday there will come a time where you will be free of heaven’s influence. You will be free and you will be all the more braver and beautiful for it. I know because I’ve seen it, and I see you living freely every day, no longer scared, no longer hiding.</em>
</p><p>Push them down, forget them for now. She had to try, anyway.</p><p>Aziraphale set down her drink and took Crowley’s hand. It wasn’t physically offered to her, but it was there to be taken.</p><p>“Lead the way, my dear.” Let the question bleed into her words, an ink spread of suggestion. Crowley had always adeptly seen the true meaning of words, especially Aziraphale’s.</p><p>So, they danced.</p><p>The band inexpertly transitioned between songs, so Crowley snapped some inspiration their way. The crowd moved a little too close to their angelic demonic unit, so Aziraphale waved them more spread out. Crowley tripped, so Aziraphale caught her. They’d been dancing around each other for thousands of years, tripping and twirling. What was one more dance to those who live forever?</p><p>
  <em>Even if it meant nothing, even if there were never another...it meant everything to me, angel. That dance, that night, the way your hair turned purple if you spun just the right way. Did you know I loved you? Must have done. You gave me a tartan thermos that meant someday and didn’t let a decade pass before you danced with me. That night meant everything to me.</em>
</p><p>They moved close to each other on the dance floor, so close that Aziraphale could imagine the beating of Crowley’s heart, a thing with wings, larger than the demon gave it credit for. The dance was informal, so Aziraphale didn’t know when, exactly, she was allowed to touch her partner. She touched her waist when the music slowed just so, like a spirit moving, like divine intervention. The slight of her waist fit in Aziraphale’s hand, enough there for Aziraphale to press closer to. Even with her glasses on, Aziraphale could clearly see the surprise and the satisfaction simultaneously shining in Crowley’s eyes. She reveled both in the expression and the express pleasure of Crowley’s velvet trousers beneath her fingertips. Fueled by initiative and lingering alcohol, she tightened her hold, loathe to let go now or ever again.</p><p><em>Angel you have to know, you </em>have<em> to, that the privilege of holding you that night nearly undid me. Having you pressed against me, close enough I swore I could feel your heartbeat matching mine...heavenly. Don’t look at me like that, it’s my job to be sacrilegious. Having you near, being privileged enough to be in your arms...there’s that song, you know. Heaven is a place on...no, angel, I know that song didn’t come out for another decade...oh, you bastard angel, come here...</em></p><p>The music slowed again. It was a cover of a song that played on the Bentley’s radio, Aziraphale was only able to recognize it by the number of times she’s heard it while passenger to Crowley's reckless driving. The band was amateur but the singer was talented, the croon of words drawing Aziraphale in closer to Crowley, beckoning the demon to follow the angel. There was sweat on Crowley’s temples, highlighting her cheekbones and tattoo. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been staring, she shouldn’t have been looking, she shouldn’t have been admiring, but she’d been doing all those things for so long, what was the point in stopping now?</p><p>“Crowley...”</p><p>It would be so, so easy to push forward through their shared history and erase it all with a kiss.</p><p>Crowley took her hands before Aziraphale could make a decision; tight grip and a tighter voice. “You’re flushed, angel. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”</p><p>Blurred beyond comprehension, the club morphed into Soho and then to a Soho alleyway. There wasn’t that cinnamon scent of miracles Crowley left in her wake, but they moved so fast Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. Crowley held her hand, walked backward, pressed herself against a low-lit, damp brick wall.</p><p>Had it been raining earlier? Thundering outside while her own heart beat just as viciously?</p><p>Even cast in shadow, the smile on Crowley’s face was luminous. She took off her glasses, pushed them into her hair. “C’mere, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale did. She allowed herself to be pulled in, centrifugal force halted in its tracks.</p><p><em>You’re a force of nature in every sense of the word, angel. I pulled you close to me that night because I couldn’t bear to let you go. You’re irresistible. I’m unforgivable, but there’d be even less a chance of redemption if I hadn’t...let me finish. I have to say this. I </em>know<em> you know, but let me speak. Angel...oh, </em>angel...</p><p>"Angel. Can I kiss you?"</p><p>Aziraphale nodded. Emphatically? Yes, but wholeheartedly and with more assurance than she'd ever put into any other gesture.</p><p>They came together.</p><p>Crowley should have tasted of whiskey, and she did, but there were undertones of flavors unrecognizable. Aziraphale pressed closer, used her tongue to taste further. She wasn’t easily distracted, but the quickening of Crowley’s breath served too interesting a diversion. She’d have to pinpoint the demon’s flavor profile later. For now, for this moment, she took Crowley’s jaw in her hands, feather-touch--kissed the demon without reservation.</p><p>Aziraphale melted; an evaporation of tension she hadn’t even realized was there. Crowley’s arms snaked around her body further, pressed into her back and her waist. Aziraphale couldn’t stop touching Crowley’s face, texture and lines and age. They’d both been around forever, no harm in showing off and taking pleasure in it.</p><p>Crowley shook when Aziraphale opened her mouth, moaned when her tongue traced the new angle.</p><p>Ah. Cinnamon. Like Crowley’s miracles. Aziraphale should have known.</p><p>“Angel...” The sunglasses clattered to the ground. Aziraphale pressed closer. “Aziraphale...” The words were a whimper and a probe, and Aziraphale resolved to have the demon make similar sounds forever.</p><p>But first...</p><p>“Yes, Crowley?”</p><p>“You know, don’t you?” She was nervous. Aziraphale was, too. Eyes and grip both tight, frozen in place. “You know? This isn’t just...a thing, this is--“ Crowley groaned. “You know what I feel. Must do. You wouldn’t...I...fuck. Angel, please...” Crowley trailed off</p><p>Aziraphale smiled, waited until Crowley’s amber eyes reopened before she spoke. “I know, Crowley.” She kissed her again, quicker and deeper. “I love you, too.”</p><p>
  <em>I loved you. I love you. I will love you. I have loved you. I will be loving you. I am loving you. I will have loved you. Should I say it in other languages? Conjugate those, too? My French is better than yours, admit it...oh, shut up. Kiss me again?</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>based on doorwaytoparadise's <a href="https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet/status/1279477455695339521?s=20">gorgeous artwork</a>. you added the pink/purple lighting after I'd already written it into this fic, which kinda freaked me out a little. same braincell energy I guess??? &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3 </p><p>title is lyrics from Janelle Monáe's Pynk</p><p>many thanks to moveslikebucky and dragon_with_a_teacup for the beta read!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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